


Shackled In My Embrace

by LadyKyrin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Established Relationship, Feels, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, Mildly Fluffy, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Slight Canon Divergence, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, so many feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4251915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKyrin/pseuds/LadyKyrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Bucky,</em> he tried again, lids sliding shut against his will. Memories strobed across the backs of them, more vivid than the present: a rough charcoal sketch of a shirtless young man curled up asleep in a mound of blankets; a kiss in an alleyway, the taste of liquor and Bucky on his lips; the rough wood of a bunkroom door biting into his back as he was pushed up against it, gasping for breath as a soft, familiar mouth laid claim to his neck, his collarbone, each new inch of skin that his best friend’s quick, dexterous fingers uncovered.</p>
<p><em>I’m with you till the end of the line,</em> whispered the Bucky of another time, another place, another life. <em>And if anything comes after that, I’ll be with you then.</em></p>
<p>~</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The friends, the lovers, and the reunited.<br/>Or, two times they kissed, and one time they should have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shackled In My Embrace

 

 

_I feel so encaptured, got me wrapped up in your touch_

_Feel so enamored, hold me tight within your clutch_

_How do you do it? You got me losing every breath_

_What did you give me to have my heart beat out my chest?_

                -- “Latch,” Sam Smith

 i.

 

            “Stevie?”

            Steve’s hand faltered halfway through shading the contour of a slim, bare shoulder, and he automatically drew his knees a little closer to his chest, shielding the unfinished sketch from view. “Mm?”

            “Stevie,” repeated the lean figure curled up on the mattress across the room, voice muffled by the pillow crammed over his head, “are you drawin’ me again?”

            Steve hastily flipped the sketchbook shut and crammed it between the cushion and the side of the armchair, tucking his pencil behind his ear as he went. “No.” He crossed his arms and shrugged just as Bucky rolled over to look at him, eyes hooded and drowsy, brows softly quirked as he squinted against the milky lavender light that bathed the room.

            “Really,” Bucky drawled, scrubbing a hand over his face, through his sleep-mussed dark hair. “You’ve got charcoal on your cheek.”

            “What? No, I don’t,” Steve blurted, dragging his hand across his cheekbone -- his hand, which was smeared silver all along the heel and side where it’d been in contact with the drawing. He lowered it with a scowl.

            Bucky chuckled. “Now you do.”

            Steve slitted his eyes at his best friend, glowering as Bucky arched his back and _stretched,_ languid and catlike, smooth skin pulling taut over the lean knots of muscle in his torso and arms. Steve forced himself to avert his gaze, heat rising in his cheeks as he was overwhelmed by a desire to finish his drawing -- to capture the hard flat plane of Bucky's stomach, the deep slant from his hips to his waist, the swell of his Adam's apple along the sun-browned column of his throat. Steve would spend hours fussing with his watercolors later, trying to mix the exact hue of Bucky’s eyes: somewhere between the cornflowers that had a tendency to spring up in Winifred Barnes’ backyard during the summer and the pale cloudless sky they’d spend lazy afternoons lounging beneath, caught up in this daydream or that one, drenched in sunshine and the thick, fragrant heat of the day. It would be the only color the sketch needed; outside, the long lingering dusk was starting to melt into night, and the low light turned Bucky into a living photograph, all soft charcoals and silvery grays. But nothing -- _nothing_  -- could dim those eyes.

            Then Steve blinked, suddenly aware that Bucky was snapping his fingers at him, and had been for some time now. His shoulders were quaking with mirth.

            Still awake, Rogers?” he teased, rolling from his back to his belly, and Steve bristled halfheartedly. “The night’s still young, gotta enjoy it while we are, too.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbled, fishing the pencil from behind his ear and setting it between his teeth like a cigarette. At least, he was pretty sure that’s how you held a cigarette. With a set of lungs like his he knew he’d have to be an idiot to actually find out for himself. “Young and wild and free all that crap,” he added, but there was no vitriol in it, and Bucky beamed.

            “That’s right,” he said cheerfully, propping his weight on his elbows and kicking his bare feet up behind him. “Gotta get out there and _live,_ Stevie. You only get one chance, y’know.”

            “So I’ve heard,” Steve muttered, trying to discreetly study Bucky’s soft, delicate brows -- so he could finish the drawing later, of course.

            Apparently the _discreetly_ bit got lost in translation somewhere between his mind and the rest of him, because the next thing he knew Bucky was giving him a smirk that sent shivers dancing down his spine, and his heart sped away with him like a startled horse.

            Bucky asked, “Can I see the drawing?”

            Steve swallowed hard and rubbed the back of his neck, not realizing until the last second that he was probably smudging charcoal everywhere (oh, well, he thought once he recovered from his initial dismay -- at this rate he imagined he’d be needing a cold shower soon, anyway _)._

            “There isn’t one,” he said, surprising himself with the relaxed clarity of his voice, the neat simplicity of the lie. It wasn’t that Steve had never drawn Bucky before; quite the opposite, in fact. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence for Steve to suddenly whip out his sketchbook wherever they were at any given moment and command Bucky to stay still until he could get a rough outline in place (rarely did he ask his best friend to stay still for any longer than a few minutes; restless and full of a _spunk_ that Steve would forever envy, Bucky didn’t exactly have the ideal _temperament_ for an artistic model, but there was no question that he had the _look)._

            This sketch, however, was different. It wasn’t practice, a study in line or contrasts, and it sure as hell wasn’t an assignment -- the mere thought of handing a drawing like that one to his studio art teacher made him shudder. _Hi, Mr. Plymouth, here’s my best friend sleeping shirtless in his room. No, no, of course I wasn’t watching him sleep, or counting his breaths, or noticing the way his eyelids flicker when he’s dreaming. And I_ definitely _didn’t pay any undue attention to those little hollows behind his collarbones, or the way his shoulders are so much broader than they were a year ago, or the shape of his mouth or the color of his eyes or the structure of his hands…_

_No, that would be ridiculous. That’d be almost as if I had a_ crush _on him or something._

_That would be ridiculous._

            Bucky laughed. “You’re a terrible liar, Stevie.”

            Steve jutted his chin stubbornly. "I'm not lying."

            Bucky seized a pillow with one hand and tossed it in his general direction, not even bothering to aim. “Ten bucks says ya are.”

            Steve made a face. “Do you even _have_ ten bucks?”

            “Nah.” Bucky sat up and grinned, sleep-mussed dark hair falling in his eyes. “But I don’t need it, do I?”

            Steve grimaced, and Bucky’s smile broadened as he swung his long legs off the mattress, brows climbing his forehead as Steve crammed himself protectively against the side of the armchair.

            “Come on, Stevie,” he wheedled, stalking closer with blue eyes bright. Steve almost whimpered as his best friend slid onto the arm of his chair, the curve of his mouth soft and mischievous and tantalizing. “You know you’re a good artist. Let me see.”

            “No,” Steve pleaded, pressing himself back into the cushions and squeezing his eyes shut as if that would somehow slow or halt his best friend’s approach. “No, come on, Buck--”

            “I just wanna _see,_ ” Bucky whined. Goosebumps rippled over Steve’s scrawny arms and legs at the sudden nearness of his friend’s voice, at the heat that ghosted across his cheek. “Please?”

            Steve’s eyes flew open as a warm weight settled across his knees, a rumble of laughter passed from someone else’s chest into his own and _was it really necessary for Bucky to be sitting in his goddamn lap?_

            Glimmering eyes gazed down into his, imploring, and Steve let his head fall back with a beleaguered groan. “Buck, you’re heavy.”

            “Come on, Steve,” Bucky begged, “show me and I’ll get off, I promise.”  Then a dark, almost eager glow came into his eyes, and he murmured, “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want me to see--?”

            Steve gave a vigorous shake of his head, trying rather industriously not to be distracted by the faint smirk on Bucky’s mouth or the dark, thick sweep of his lashes or the way he glanced down at Steve’s lips, just once, just enough to shatter his concentration. “No,” he managed, squirming slightly, “no, no reason.”

            “Ah.” Bucky’s half-lidded eyes opened fully, brows pinching as if with disappointment. “Pity.”

            Steve blinked hard as his head started to spin, addled by the familiar warmth of Bucky pressed against him and his best friend’s heady scent of spearmint gum and “borrowed” cologne and the bittersweet smoke of George Barnes’ cigarettes.

            “Bucky,” he started, reaching down between the cushions to retrieve his sketchbook, but then there were soft, firm lips closing over his and a warm hand on his wrist and everything else in the world ceased to matter.

            The kiss was hesitant -- chaste, close-mouthed, just a feather-light press of lips to lips -- but it was enough. Steve’s breath shuddered out of him in a ragged sigh, and Bucky eagerly shifted closer, hands sliding over Steve’s shoulders to pull him close; tentatively, Steve lifted his thin, bony arms around his best friend’s neck, fingers winding into the rough silk of his hair. Steve’s heart skipped a beat as Bucky’s breathing hitched, shoulders heaving ever so slightly under the careful ministrations of Steve’s wandering hands.

            The kiss broke, cold air rushing up to replace the tender heat of Bucky’s mouth.

            For the first time in a long, long time, Steve found himself panting from something other than his asthma.

            “Bucky,” he breathed, heart hammering his ribs, “what--”

            But Bucky was scrambling back, tumbling onto the floor with an unceremonious _thump_ and a yelp, eyes wide and wild.

            “Oh, God,” he blurted, hauling himself back with his hands and feet, “I’m _so_ sorry. I’m so sorry, Steve, I didn’t mean-- if you didn’t want--”

            Steve stared at him in disbelief as he lifted a trembling hand to his mouth; his lips were still warm and swollen from the kiss, tingling with the memory of it. He could taste spearmint.

            “Bucky,” he started, “that was…”

            He broke off abruptly when he saw that Bucky had buried his face in his hands, knees yanked to his chest, his entire body quivering with swift, shallow breaths that sounded eerily like Steve’s name. Bewildered, Steve hurried to climb down from the chair and crawl to him.

            Bucky didn’t look up when Steve brushed a hand over his shoulder, and Steve tried to shove down the cold dread that surged up in him, tried to suppress the hot, bitter rush of tears he could feel swelling behind his eyes.

            “Bucky,” he said again, trying to ignore the hard twist in his stomach, “it’s okay, I promise. It’s--”

_I’m so sorry, Steve, I didn’t mean-- if you didn’t want--_

            Steve caught his breath on a laugh that was half-delirious, half-incredulous, and now Bucky _did_ look up, panic etched in every line of his smooth, handsome face.

            “What?” he asked, the roses in his cheeks darkening to plums, and Steve didn’t give him a chance to get any more words out before he crashed his lips against Bucky’s.

            The kiss was a little harder this time, a little deeper, fierce enough that Steve was dizzy and seeing stars by the time it he came up for air. Slowly, he became aware of Bucky’s fingers splayed across his cheeks, Bucky’s hands bracketing his face, Bucky’s thumbs tracing the outline of Steve’s mouth as he bent his head to catch his breath. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, everywhere he looked, everywhere he could feel.

            “Sorry,” Bucky mumbled, still close enough that Steve felt the words as much as he heard them, and Steve started to puff up with indignation before he saw the grin slowly building on his best friend’s lips.

            “Jerk,” he grumbled, swatting at Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky let out a surprisingly deep, rich laugh that echoed in Steve’s ears and resonated in the very marrow of his oh-so-breakable bones.

            “Punk,” Bucky murmured back, pressing the words into the soft skin of Steve’s cheek before trailing back down to recapture his mouth.

            Heart soaring, head swimming, Steve closed his eyes and let him.

 

 ii.

            If Steve was being completely honest with himself, he kind of missed getting drunk.

            Not that he’d ever made a regular habit of it, of course. But he’d be lying if he said he’d never taken some small pleasure in the lightheadedness a neat whiskey used to bring, in the way it had loosened his tongue and dropped his guard and -- sometimes, when he had a couple drinks in him -- allowed him to do the things he only ever daydreamed about when he was sober. Even though his alcohol tolerance had been just about null, the occasional nights he’d gone drinking with Bucky had been a welcome release from his personal hell of illness and fatigue and general inadequacy.

            His life didn’t really consist of any of those things now, thanks to Erskine, but the hell still remained. The war. Schmidt. The memories of what he’d seen in the warehouse that’d held Bucky and the Howling Commandos still lurked like shadows at the edges of his mind: the stark stone walls of the dungeon, the reek of blood and vomit and unwashed bodies, the long leather examination chair he’d found Bucky strapped into like a death row inmate. With those images came the now-familiar rush of guilt: he’d never experienced the suffering of the survivors, or the sacrifice of the dead. He’d barely scratched the surface of the war; barely dipped his toes in that ocean of blood and carnage and senseless violence. He couldn’t delude himself into thinking he was any more than what Erskine and the Colonel had intended him to be.

            Those were the kind of thoughts that haunted him when there was nothing to distract him -- the ones he wished he could drink away, just for a night. But maybe—

            “Hey, punk, you all right?”

            —Maybe getting drunk wasn’t what he really needed.

            “I should be asking _you_ that,” he murmured, wrapping his hands around what could’ve been his third drink or his thirteenth. With nothing to gauge his consumption by, he’d lost track. He took a searing sip of whatever liquor they’d given him and looked up at the man who’d taken up the barstool to his right. “How are you holding up?”

            Bucky -- God, he never thought he’d get to think his name like that ever again -- gave him a crooked half-smile, eyes sharp and calculating but not unkind beneath his dark, delicate brows.

            "Well enough," he said after a pause, rapping his knuckles lightly on the mahogany counter. "Well as can be expected, that is." He flashed a familiar cocky grin. "How do I look?"

            Steve smirked into his drink. "Like someone just dragged your sorry ass out of hell."

            To his relief, Bucky laughed shortly before drowning it with the last dregs of his beer. "I think it's fair to say someone did."

            His tone was flippant, but the words still turned Steve's stomach, flooding his mind with images of a bruised and battered Bucky, livid red marks decorating his arms where the straps had bitten in, eyes glazed and unfocused as he stumbled at Steve's side with an arm wrapped around his shoulders.

            Without thinking, Steve leaned in and murmured, "You sure you're all right?"

            Bucky set his empty glass down with a sigh. “Stevie.”

            “Don’t even think about making a joke,” Steve warned, swiveling to face his best friend. “You keep forgetting that I _know_ you, Buck. You’ll talk all day without saying a word if I let you.”

            “Yeah?” Bucky snapped, shoving his glass away from him with more force than was probably necessary. “Well, maybe you should let me.”

            Guilt lodged behind Steve’s breastbone -- guilt, and _anger_ , sudden and white-hot and spreading. “Bucky…”

            Bucky’s hands flexed on the edge of the counter, color leaching from his knuckles. “Don’t.”

            “Don’t _what?”_ Steve demanded, waving off the bartender’s offer for another round without turning to look. “Don’tworry? Don’t care? What do you _expect_ me to do, Buck?”

            Bucky pushed back his stool. “You know, I think I’ve had enough for tonight.” He lifted a hand to summon the bartender. “Close my tab?”

            “Put it on mine,” Steve cut in before Bucky could hand over any money, earning a shrug from the bartender and a glare from his best friend. “Please. Can we just talk about this?”

            Bucky scowled, and even with a deep crease between his brows and a cruel twist to his mouth Steve couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of him. There was something different about it now -- something crooked and feral, a little rough around the edges, but so wholly _Bucky_ that it was difficult for Steve to find it anything but utterly captivating.

            Bucky bit his lip, hard; then, to Steve’s surprise, he gave a stiff nod. “Fine.”

            “Great.” Steve got up as well, and was immediately disoriented by the slight difference in their height -- Bucky had to lift his eyes to look at him now, and Steve could tell from the hard slant of his brows that he wasn’t entirely pleased about it.

            “Come on,” Bucky growled under his breath, stalking for the back door without checking to see if Steve was following. “I’d rather we weren’t followed.”

            Steve made a noise of wordless agreement as they set off, keeping his face angled away from the light and praying that his generic olive uniform would allow him to blend into the rest of the boisterous, merrymaking crowd. At some point Bucky took his wrist; his grip was light, thumb pressing the back of his hand, index finger on his pulse point, but it was enough to send a shiver down his spine. It was just to make sure they didn’t get separated, he told himself as Bucky led him from the warm, smoky haze of the bar into the cool inky dark of the adjacent alley, the door creaking shut behind them. They weren’t seventeen and impulsive anymore, entwined on an armchair, stealing first kisses and seconds and thirds on a balmy summer afternoon. They were adults now. They were soldiers. And what they’d had, what Steve thought they’d had… That wasn’t something that could be done. Not anymore.

            As soon as Steve turned the lock behind them, Bucky marched up to a trash can and kicked it hard enough to make it ring like an old bell, the lid flying off to vanish into the shadows with a clatter. Steve loosed a breath through his teeth as he went to retrieve it.

            “Want a shield of your own?” he asked as he stepped back into the light, hoisting it up in front of him. “Could just slap a coat of paint on this, and--”

            Steve snapped his mouth shut at the look on Bucky’s face, suddenly feeling like a perfect reverse of his old self: nigh unbeatable in a fistfight but worthless in an argument. “God, I’m sorry. I was just -- I don’t know. Buck--”

            “I thought I was dead,” Bucky said.

            For a moment they were utterly silent. Inside the bar they could hear the bright thrum of the piano and the warm, slightly off-key chorus of enthusiastic voices singing along, punctuated by the clink of mugs and the occasional shriek of shattering glass; hazy honey-gold light streamed out from under the door, providing their only illumination save for starlight. In the half-light Bucky’s face was sharper than Steve remembered, features thrown into sharp relief, his lingering bruises like smears of oil pastel against the pallor of his skin.

            Bucky took a long, ragged breath, arms wrapped tight around his waist. “I thought I was dead,” he repeated, slowly, drawing out the words so they had time to sink in like knives. “In the warehouse. I’d been in that chair for two days, you know -- that bastard Zola had me for two days before you got there, not that you could’ve known. Then you showed up, and I thought I was dead, because it was _you,_ and that was impossible _.”_ He barked out a bitter laugh. “And I thought, 'this can't be hell, because Stevie would never be in hell. And if this isn't hell, I wanna ask God exactly what I did to deserve heaven.'"

            The word _everything_ gathered and dissolved on Steve's lips, melting on his tongue at the intensity in Bucky's gaze. His best friend's eyes danced like sparks in the dimness, almost wild in their fervency, luridly blue against the hectic flush in his cheeks.

            It took him a moment to find his voice again, and when he did, it came out as little more than a breath. "You know, if what they say is true, I'm not so sure I wouldn't be in hell after all."

            Bucky looked up at him, startled; then his eyes flickered over Steve's face, reading the desperate hunger there, the yearning that had begun in earnest the night Bucky had shipped out and not let up for a second since.

            Bucky hesitated, then gave a soft, mirthless scoff, eyes climbing skyward. "Yeah," he said after a pause, gaze brilliant and unwavering as it found Steve's again. "Yeah, me too."

            Steve's heart hammered his ribs as he stepped forward, tentatively, hands slipping from his pockets. "You know," he said, voice rough, "if we're already damned, we might as well make the most of it."

            Bucky took a stride forward as well, closing a little more of the distance.

            "Yes,” he breathed, eyes aglint, “might as well.”

            Steve sucked in a gasp when his best friend suddenly darted forward, framing Steve’s face with his hands, his weight bearing them both against the wall as their mouths collided with a force that straddled the fine line between pleasure and pain. A shiver of startled gratification trembled down Steve’s spine as Bucky’s body molded to his, long and lean and powerful, hard muscle bunching and sliding under Steve’s fumbling fingers; Bucky’s hands seemed to be everywhere at once, tangling in his hair, skimming up his broad back, gliding down the steep curvature of his waist to hook nimble fingers through his belt loops and tug him closer.

            “Buck-- Bucky,” Steve panted, quite distracted by the hot press of lips under his jaw, down the column of his throat, “maybe we shouldn’t--”

            Bucky groaned in protest, breaking his lips from Steve’s skin with utmost reluctance. “Why not?”

            A breathy laugh bubbled up from Steve’s throat. “We’re in an alley,” he said, bending to nuzzle the side of Bucky’s neck and receiving a muffled whimper in response, “with all our friends waiting inside, and the train mission tomorrow, and--”

            “All the more reason to, though, right?” Bucky pointed out hopefully, plucking at Steve’s tie. “We could die on that mission, you know. Just like that. And I’m willing to bet that your last thoughts would be something along the lines of, ‘God, if only I’d just listened to Bucky and--’”

            Steve crushed his lips to Bucky’s before he could finish his sentence, nipping lightly when Bucky refused to stop grinning against his mouth. Bucky inhaled sharply, surprised at the boldness of the gesture, before stretching up for a kiss so deep and thorough that it threatened to buckle Steve’s knees -- and very well might have, if Bucky hadn’t pulled back just in time.

            “I think we should,” he announced, glancing down with a smirk at Steve’s hands, which had at some point migrated to his collar and unfastened a couple buttons. Steve felt heat bloom in his cheeks and hastily dropped his arms around Bucky’s waist instead. “Please?”

            A strangled sound spilled from Steve’s lips, halfway between a whine and a groan.

            Bucky landed a feather-light kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth. “It’s not a long walk back to base, you know,” he said, flashing an impish grin. “I think I can control myself for ten more minutes.”

            The words slipped out without Steve’s volition: “Guess we’ll have to move fast, then.”

            Bucky stared for a moment, astonished; then he threw back his head and _cackled_ , bright and rich and musical.

            “I knew you had it in you, Stevie,” he crowed, grabbing one of Steve’s hands in both of his and dragging him away from the wall. “Come on. Race you back.”

            “Oh, I really don’t think you wanna do that,” Steve snorted, but then Bucky gave him a smirk that informed him that oh, yes, he very much did, and he only had a few milliseconds to consider how stupid and impulsive they were being before they were running, hand in hand beneath the whirling stars, and _stupid and impulsive_ started to feel pretty damn good.

 

iii.

   

            Steve was going to die.

            He could feel it -- in his slowing heart; in the pulsing wound in his abdomen; in his lungs, slowly filling with dark, sour water as they strained for nonexistent air. He had taken falls, taken bullets, taken planes into the ocean and slept frozen amongst the wreckage for seventy years. He had survived all that. He’d come back.

            But not this.

            This was the end of the line.

            He didn’t feel so much that he was sinking as he did that the water was rising, sweeping up to wrap him an icy, inky embrace that he could find neither the strength nor the desire to escape from. Bucky, he thought -- Bucky had not fallen with him, was not in the water with him. Safe. The thought flooded him with such relief that he sighed, his last few precious iotas of oxygen pouring from his lips in a plume of bubbles, and let his body go slack. _Safe._

            The Bucky he’d fought on the helicarrier could live without Steve. But the Steve that the Winter Soldier been prepared to eliminate couldn’t live with Bucky.

            Steve’s awareness was just beginning to fray at the edges when there was a tremendous crash from above, the still surface of the lake erupting into breakers and foam as something large broke through it at what should’ve been a deadly velocity -- deadly, that was, for an ordinary human, and the Winter Soldier was not that. Sunlight refracted off the interlocked steel plates of the Soldier’s metal arm as it sliced through the water, pulling him into the deep with a few swift, powerful strokes; Steve could barely make out the familiar face looming over him through the blood and bruises and streaming hair, but he knew those _eyes,_ knew the look in them. He should try to get away, he knew, try to flee before the Winter Soldier could finish the job that the lake had started, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t.

_Bucky,_ he tried to whisper, water gushing down his throat, but no sound escaped. _Bucky._

            A brilliant blue gaze found his, raking back and forth over his face, the feverish uncertainty in it bordering on panic. Steve’s faltering heart gave a sudden hard leap against his cracked ribs.

_Bucky,_ he tried again, lids sliding shut against his will. Memories strobed across the backs of them, more vivid than the present: a rough charcoal sketch of a shirtless young man curled up asleep in a mound of blankets; a kiss in an alleyway, the taste of liquor and Bucky on his lips; the rough wood of a bunkroom door biting into his back as he was pushed up against it, gasping for breath as a soft, familiar mouth laid claim to his neck, his collarbone, each new inch of skin that his best friend’s quick, dexterous fingers uncovered.

_I’m with you till the end of the line,_ whispered the Bucky of another time, another place, another life. _And if anything comes after that, I’ll be with you then._

            An arm wrapped Steve’s waist, and the world faded out.

\---

            He couldn’t be dead.

            The thought slammed into the Winter Soldier out of nowhere, ripping through the haze of fury, disorientation, and inexplicable terror clouding his mind, the suddenness of it nearly making him spit out the lungful of oxygen he’d sucked in before he dove. The dead weight of Captain America sagged over his left arm -- the bulk of him was so great that even the cybernetic appendage had difficulty holding him up -- and nothing about the fallen Avenger gave the impression of life: no flickering eyelids or moving lips or twitching muscles, no feeble attempts at a struggle. Nothing.

            But he _couldn’t be dead,_ and the Winter Soldier was not thinking of the serum -- he was thinking of something else, _someone_ else. Memories he didn’t recall creating of touches he didn’t remember feeling and words he didn’t remember saying and kisses he didn’t remember bestowing. A love he didn’t remember falling into. A life he didn’t remember living.

            _Can’t be dead. Can’t be dead._

        Then, from nowhere: _Till the end of the line. You promised. You_ promised.

            They had both promised.

            The Soldier almost didn’t notice when they surfaced, a cool breeze rushing over his drenched hair and face as he made sure that Captain America’s-- that _Steve’s_ head was above water before he started to kick them towards shore. Steve was limp in his grasp, face deathly pale, lips darkening to a sickly bluish lavender; the sight struck an unexpected fear into the Soldier's heart, and he pushed harder against the weak tug of the current, shoving aside bits of still-smoldering debris as he floundered gracelessly toward the shore. _Can't be dead. Has to live. Has to live._ He took the words up in a soft, steady chant, a breathless mantra, a prayer to a deity he'd never truly believed in but would beseech till his dying breath if it kept a beat in Steve Rogers' heart. _Has to live. Don't let him die._

            Finally, Bucky felt loose sand under his boots instead of open water, and he dragged Steve in front of him as he scrambled for a foothold, fisting a hand in the back of back of the Captain America uniform to keep him from slipping under again. A vulgar oath poured from his lips in swift, nearly impeccable Russian -- only nearly, he realized as a wave of dizziness crashed over him, blurring and then doubling his vision. The language did not fall as effortlessly from his lips as it once had, and he was suddenly very aware of his accent, thickening his vowels and hardening consonants, obstructing the natural, unimpeded flow of the words. This was not his voice -- not the Winter Soldier’s voice. It belonged to someone else, someone living but long-buried, born of Brooklyn with the cadence to match.

            _Who the hell is Bucky?_

            The Winter Soldier’s own breath was loud in his ears, shallow and stuttering, quickening as his chest constricted and his throat closed.

            He thought he might be a step closer to the answer.

            Muscle heaved suddenly under the Soldier’s metal hand as Steve arched his back and let loose with a series of spluttering coughs, filthy water spouting from his mouth as his body convulsed and he retched. The Soldier had never imagined that relief could feel so sharp, or cut so deep.

            Or perhaps the answer was getting closer to him.

            Before he could reconsider, the Soldier gripped one of Steve’s shoulder straps, hoisted him up, and pulled his _enemy? mission? friend?_ onto the muddy bank, step by shaky step.

            As soon as they were both clear of the murky waves licking the shore, the Soldier released him, exhaling heavily as Steve’s broad shoulders thudded in the dirt. _Alive,_ whispered some instinct of the Soldier’s, and it put him at ease, for he had never known his instincts to be wrong. As the Soldier watched, Steve’s chest began to hitch and sink with weak, shuddering breaths, and even though every one gurgled on the way in and rattled on the way out, it was still breathing. It was still life, however feebly tethered to the bleeding, half-drowned man sprawled at his feet.

            For a moment the Soldier gazed down at that pale, bruised, bloodied face, taking in the effeminate lips and lashes, the elegant cheekbones, the straight, broad nose, the fine brows. _Beautiful_ , he thought suddenly, and blinked. Beauty seemed like such a foreign concept now -- _now,_ which suggested that it had not always been so, which meant…

            _Bucky!_

            _Bucky-- Bucky, there are men laying down their_ lives. _I’ve got no right to do any less than them._

            _You’re a punk._

            _Jerk._

            Whispers in the dark, hands slipping down his bare spine. _I love you, James Buchanan Barnes._

            Warm skin against his lips. _I love you, too._

            _Don’t ever leave me, all right? Promise me you’re never gonna leave._

            _I swear._

_On what?_

_On everything._

The Winter Soldier’s legs buckled beneath him. When his knees hit the mud, Steve’s eyelids fluttered; when he doubled over, arms squeezing his torso, harsh, shallow breaths sawing in and out of his lungs, Steve whispered a name: not his, but _yes, his_ , as distantly and sweetly familiar as the caress of a long-lost lover.

He longed to hear it again.

He wanted to reach out, take those limp hands in his, wind their fingers together and feel the beat of Steve’s pulse against his own.

He wanted to lean down, brush away the blood on his face, and press his lips to the bruised, broken skin, tracing the wounds as if he could seal them with nothing but kisses and willpower.

_No --_ it was _Bucky_ who wanted those things, _Bucky_ who loved Steven Rogers, _Bucky_ who had leapt from the helicarrier with only one thought in his mind. Bucky, who was no more. Bucky, who was him.

Still on his knees, the Winter Soldier crawled to where Steve lay, pulling himself along with both hands until he could stare directly down at the man’s still, beautiful face. His heart tripped as his flesh hand came up of its own accord, stroking along the curve of Steve’s ashen cheek; his skin was smooth and damp, hot to the touch, swollen from the blows that he himself had dealt, and the Soldier realized that his fingers were trembling. There was a time when he could have killed this man and left his corpse to rot without a flicker of remorse. Now the mere thought of having harmed him was enough to stop his breath in his throat.

Slowly, cautiously, he leaned down. Air was still whistling in and out of Steve’s nose, wafting through his parted lips, and his eyes danced beneath bruised, translucent lids. He smelled faintly of blood and ash. The Soldier bent closer, intent on studying him, on memorizing this face before he fled.

His gaze slipped lower, falling to Steve’s mouth, and he stilled.

No.

He was no longer a person who had any right to do that.

Steve stirred, and the Soldier jerked back like he’d been shocked; then, when the man settled again, he shot out a hand and clasped the radio peeking from the breast pocket of the Captain America uniform. Whoever had built the thing had had the good sense to waterproof it, and it sputtered with static when the Winter Soldier flicked it on.

            _“Rogers, ROGERS,”_ a garbled voice pleaded across the line, “ _Rogers, please come in--”_

The Winter Soldier jammed the ‘talk’ button, silencing whoever was on the other end, and drew a shuddering breath before he spoke.

“Rogers is down,” he said, voice slightly gravelled from disuse but thankfully still functional. He paused to lick blood from his lips. “Abdominal gunshot wound, other possible trauma resulting from fall. Breathing labored but not agonal. Unconscious but responsive to stimuli.” He hesitated only a moment before pressing two fingers against Steve’s throat, just beneath the jaw. “Pulse elevated but steady. Location: on the shore of an unnamed lake beneath the last known position of the western helicarrier. Emergency medical attention requested.”

He released the button and was immediately assaulted by an outburst of frenzied, overlapping voices, the loudest of which belonging to the woman who’d originally put out the call: “ _Who is this?”_ she demanded. In the background, people were shouting about medics and coordinates and diverting forces. “ _This is Agent Hill of S.H.I.E.L.D; identify yourself.”_

The Soldier listened, thumb hovering over the button without pressing, heart heavy in his throat.

“ _Identify yourself!”_ Agent Hill barked. _“Who are you?”_

He flicked the volume off without replying. He didn’t know the answer, anyway.

When the radio had been tossed aside -- still on, of course; he had no doubt that S.H.I.E.L.D. implanted GPS transmitters in all their communications devices -- the Soldier sat back on his heels, breathing heavily, the ache of his wounds and the decision he’d just made finally starting to settle in. At his side, Steve lay unmoving, oblivious to what he’d done -- and whatever he was about to do.

_I’m with you till the end of the line, pal._

Without giving himself time to reconsider, the Winter Soldier leaned down and touched his lips to Steve Rogers’ brow. It wasn’t a kiss -- it was done too lightly and too quickly to be called that -- but it was, in the Soldier’s mind, in _Bucky’s_ mind, enough.

_Once you start running, they’ll never let you stop,_ murmured a familiar voice in the back of his mind, and he shivered, all too aware of the truth of it. But there was no changing what he’d done, not now. His crime had been committed, and the smoking gun lay at his feet in the sand. S.H.I.E.L.D would come. HYDRA would come. The whole goddamn world would come. And he would run, because he knew something they didn’t.

_Anywhere you go, I will follow,_ whispered the Steve of another time, another place, another life, and Bucky knew he meant it.

So he turned, he took a deep breath, and he ran.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it. :) I really, really hope you enjoyed it; if you did, please let me know with comments or kudos, those always make my day to see. If you didn't like it, please let me know what I can do better -- I'm always looking to improve. 
> 
> I'm not currently active in the Captain America fandom, but if you're a fan of Yuri on Ice, I hope you'll check out the Viktuuri slow-burn I'm currently writing: [When the Earth Holds Still](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11117628/chapters/24813780)


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